The Missing Person

Chapter 1: The Echo of Silence

A strange stillness settled over the small town of Windmere. It was the kind of quiet that made the air feel thick, like the world was holding its breath. The roads, usually bustling with the hum of car engines and the distant chatter of schoolchildren, lay empty. The wind didn't even stir the leaves, and the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the deserted streets.

At the edge of town, the old Thompson farm sat in the shadow of the forest, its weathered barn and collapsing silo a silent testament to years of neglect. For the past several months, the property had become a source of whispers—an abandoned farm with a mysterious history that had always been the subject of local legend.

Some said the farm was cursed, that a terrible event had happened there years ago, a secret too painful for anyone to remember. Others spoke of strange noises heard late at night; figures seen moving in the windows when no one had lived there in years. But no one truly knew the truth. That is, until Peter Lawrence, a former journalist turned private investigator, arrived in Windmere.

Peter had been hired by a concerned relative of one of the missing persons—Cathy Walker. Cathy had been one of the many who disappeared from Windmere in the last six months, vanishing without a trace. It wasn't just her disappearance that had drawn Peter to this sleepy town. It was the string of similar cases. Six people, all in their twenties, all local, all with no clear connection to one another, and all of them had vanished without a sound. No signs of struggle. No ransom notes. Just... gone.

The police had hit a dead end. But Peter wasn't one to give up easily. He was a man used to chasing down truths, even when they led into dark, uncertain places.

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Peter's boots crunched on the gravel as he approached the Thompson farm. His car was parked off the main road, hidden beneath a thicket of overgrown trees. It wasn't that he was trying to hide—it was more that he had no interest in alerting the wrong people to his presence. The town had grown suspicious of outsiders after the disappearances. Word travelled fast, and Peter wasn't about to become the next target of a closed community desperate to protect its secrets.

He approached the front door of the house, which sagged slightly to the left as if tired from years of neglect. The wood was warped and splintered, the peeling paint a sign of long-forgotten upkeep. He pushed the door open slowly, his heart pounding in his chest. The hinges creaked like a warning.

Inside, the air was thick with dust. Cobwebs draped across corners, and the musty scent of rotting wood filled the room. Yet, in the dim light that filtered through the cracked windows, Peter could see evidence of recent life. A half-empty coffee mug sat on the counter, a stack of papers lay abandoned on a table, and a faint imprint in the dust suggested someone had been there just days ago.

Peter's hand instinctively reached for his phone. He checked the time—5:42 PM. There was no signal. As expected, the forest around the farm was known to block phone service, which only added to the eerie isolation of the place. He had a backup plan, though. A satellite phone, tucked safely in his jacket pocket. But he hadn't used it yet.

He stepped deeper into the house, his footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust on the floor. A strange tension hung in the air, like the entire building was holding something back, something hidden in its creaky bones. Peter couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't alone.

Then he heard it.

A low creaking sound—like wood bending under the weight of something heavy. It came from upstairs.

Peter froze, his breath catching in his throat. He stood perfectly still, straining his ears. The house seemed to exhale with him, the sound of the wind outside whispering through the broken windows. And then—nothing. Absolute silence.

But Peter knew what he had heard. Someone—or something—was upstairs.

His pulse quickened, but he forced himself to stay calm. He had been in dangerous situations before. He had dealt with hostile informants, suspicious characters, and even threats on his own life. But this? This was different. It was as if the house itself was alive, and it didn't want him there.

Taking a deep breath, Peter decided to investigate. He moved toward the stairs, each step causing the floorboards to groan beneath his weight. The staircase was narrow and steep, leading up into the darkness. He hesitated at the top, peering into the gloom of the second floor.

The hallway was long, its walls adorned with faded family portraits. A series of closed doors lined the passage, each one seemingly hiding something. He moved toward the first door on his left, his hand resting on the cold doorknob.

Suddenly, the house seemed to shudder. A low rumble vibrated through the floor, followed by a loud crash. The air around him grew heavier, thick with the scent of something old—something rotten.

Peter's heart raced as he swung the door open, revealing a small bedroom. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled as if someone had fled in a hurry. But it was the closet that caught his attention. The door was ajar, a faint scraping sound coming from within.

Without thinking, Peter moved toward it. His hand shook slightly as he reached for the door. He pulled it open.

Empty.

But the floor of the closet was disturbed, the carpet torn up in one corner, exposing the cold wooden boards beneath. And there, in the centre of the floor, was something that shouldn't have been there. A trapdoor. Hidden in plain sight, almost as if it had been waiting for him to find it.

Peter crouched down, his fingers brushing the edges of the trapdoor. It was old, its wood warped and cracked from years of neglect, but it still felt solid beneath his touch. He could feel the weight of something pressing down on him from below. The trapdoor wasn't just a means of accessing a forgotten cellar—it was a barrier, holding back something.

Something dangerous.

He reached for the rusted handle and pulled.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a narrow staircase that descended into the darkness below. The air that wafted up from the depths was damp and stale, carrying with it the scent of earth and decay.

Peter hesitated, his mind racing. He had come here to investigate disappearances, but what he was about to uncover might be more than he could handle.

He stepped down into the blackness, each step echoing in the stillness. His flashlight flickered briefly before steadying, casting long, trembling shadows on the stone walls. The further he descended, the colder it became, the walls pressing in around him like the embrace of an unseen force.

And then, as his foot hit the bottom of the stairs, he heard it.

A whisper.

It was soft, so soft that Peter almost thought he had imagined it. But then it came again. Closer this time.

"Help... me..."

Peter froze, his body tensing. The voice was unmistakable—it was Cathy Walker's. He recognized it immediately, the tone of desperation, the haunting quality of someone who had been trapped for far too long.

Before he could move, a hand shot out from the darkness, gripping his ankle.

Peter screamed, jerking back in horror.

And then, everything went black.

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**To be continued...**

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